


Nativity in Jack

by DeadNation666



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Branding, Corruption, Deal with a Devil, Demon Summoning, Demons, Everything is goth, Halloween, M/M, Magic, Monsterfucking, Probably ooc, Repressed gay feelings, Rhys is a dumbass, Rhys is also emo bitch, Rivalry, Teratophilia, Vampires, land dispute somehow gets sexy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27301348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadNation666/pseuds/DeadNation666
Summary: Follow me now and you will not regretLeaving the life you led before we metYou are the first to have this love of mineForever with me 'till the end of time
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Nativity in Jack

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this is late! It was supposed to be my halloween fic, but now it's Nov. 1st, and I am a screw up. Please enjoy.

It was a dark and stormy night as Rhys, Second Duke of Bellemont, lay in his parlor, lounging on a crimson chaise, listlessly sipping a glass of wine with a little volume of melancholy prose nestled between his slender, velvet-clad legs. Here he idled, despondently, in his sumptuous, cozy robe, gazing, forlorn, at the dancing gossamer sheets of rain playing amidst spears of lightning in the tempest beyond his towering window. Here he sighed, sipping his wine a bit too quickly, simmering in his woe. You see, Rhys was in contention for the position of Crown Prince of the kingdom of Pandora, and thus far had been maneuvered into a politically hopeless position by his rival, Hugo Vasquez, Duke of Altevale, and he wasn’t particularly thrilled about having to answer directly to his family’s rival of many centuries. After all, vampires held grudges like few others.

It had only been a few weeks since Vasquez had fucked Rhys over most recently, securing a land deal that nearly cut off Rhys’s duchy from any trade, and reduced the ley line intersections on his land to just one. Rhys’s ever-shrinking dominion was nearly completely surrounded by that asshole’s expansive land grabs, and at this point, there didn’t seem like there was much he could do about it. It had all started seemingly years ago, when Rhys was first turned. He was the young, promising, and vibrant protege of a Count Henderson, and seemingly his favorite. Vasquez had been his equal then, the two of them being relatively young vampires with the same blood patron. Almost like brothers, in a way, but not quite. Vasquez had always chafed at Rhys’s promise, his ambition. He was older than Rhys, and stronger, and a rivalry quickly formed, which boiled over into outright hostility after Vasquez killed their patron for unrelated reasons. _That_ was a whole debacle in and of itself, well played, to be fair, as it cemented Vasquez’s place as a Count, regardless of how underhanded he had been in doing so. But it also cemented Rhys’s place as the same, and land and property had to be split “equally” between them. Immediately, Vasquez would begin skimming pieces from Rhys’s claim, and with his lack of clout and experience, Rhys struggled to resist it all. It was demoralizing, and it had been going on for years. On top of that, Vasquez had been doing _something_ with the magical loci they once shared. Sure, it was within his rights to claim them, they were on his land now, but Rhys could feel his powers waning as the years went on, and it tore him up inside knowing he was becoming ever more powerless to get them back. It had to stop. 

Rhys’s plans had, so far, been fruitless. Tipping off monster hunters had, at first, not worked, since anything suspect in Vasquez’s manor was glamoured to appear ordinary, and the second time, the hunters had caught onto Rhys’s nature, and he had to flee. Thank the Gods he was disguised, and nowhere near his home. Rallying other vampire families to overthrow Vasquez’s rule would put Rhys himself at risk of having his own dwindling claim be acquired. Magical rituals to hamper the utility of land at risk of being bought off had sort of worked, but was starting to cut into Rhys’s own finances as formerly arable land turned swampy, bramble-ridden and overgrown. Ultimately, he wanted to totally usurp Vasquez, take his fortune, take his land, take his dagger to his throat, take his life. Rhys was so constantly wracked with shame and disgrace at the ruination he had allowed to befall him despite his efforts, he wanted that asshole obliterated. He heard his wine glass crack under his grip as he stewed on it, the _audacity_ of it all. He was through playing by the rules.

Rhys quaffed the rest of his wine with haste, dashing his already cracked glass against the floor and marched, fuming, into his library. He’d inherited most of these books from various benefactors, thus had not read them all, but he knew where everything was, more or less. Including the texts detailing dark magics, forbidden even to vampires to practice. Pulling out a large cookbook and turning the inconspicuous knob positioned behind it, Rhys swung one of the many bookcases open like a door, revealing the hidden nook where he ferreted away such profane texts. He piled as many relevant tomes into his arms as would fit and got to work.

Late, late into the day, Rhys studied, curtains drawn to abate the searing sun; a teetering stack of ancient, fleshbound tomes stacked precariously on the spindly-legged little table beside him, poring over one such volume and hastily scribbling down ink-spattered notes in crowded script. He’d sorted through curses, hexes, jinxes, and had now landed on a grimoire of devils with whom one could commune and deal. “Fuck it,” he thought to himself, “I’m gonna live forever, why not sell my soul?”

He perused the listings like a catalogue of the weird and the unholy, the promises of wealth, knowledge, and power tantalizing Rhys’s ambitions, tugging at him inside. This is it, he thought, this is how you get what you deserve, what you’ve been working for this whole time. This was gonna be his salvation.

He flipped through the pages impatiently, skimming the entries, sizing the subjects up like products in a catalogue, becoming increasingly frustrated at the options. Too many caveats, not the right skills offered, only appears to virgins-- surely that meant virgin mortal women, not something Rhys exactly had a backstock of on hand. Well, of course devils would be fickle and persnickety about these sorts of things, they had the right to be, really, being the ones offering such gifts. It didn’t mean Rhys wasn’t growing increasingly irritated with the selection process, until he spotted one entry, midway or so through the chapter on “Infernall Subjectes”.

  1. _A President of Hell whose known name is "Handsome" Jack, who taketh the shape and forme of a winged, horned, tailled and masked man of uncommon beautie. His patronage is that of vanity, business ventures, sexuall prowess, pursuites of revenge, matters of lucke, and a spirit bearing unyielding work ethic. He granteth the conjurer great success in the pursuits of trade and politicks, instructes men in the pursuits of alchemie, magick and unnatural craftes, and is lord over four and twenty legions of fiends._



Rhys was immediately intrigued. Sounded more or less perfect for his… goals. Would it be wrong of him to want to know exactly what the author meant by a “man of uncommon beautie”? The picture in his head was probably more salacious than whatever some stodgy old scholar a couple hundred years before he’d even been turned considered handsome. He was probably under-served, sexually speaking, and as a result, over-selling it all. But Rhys, restless and lonely in his big empty manor, the balls and parties and politicking and feasts and seemingly endless line of suitresses competing for his nonexistent affection all washing over him like so much water over a smooth, cold, motionless stone in a stream. It all began to blend together after about 18 years of the whole eternal youth thing, and now he was just frustrated. He’d whittled down his list of close confidants to two, plus his house staff. Everyone else he knew seemed to adjust to unlife so much better, but he was young for a vampire, just barely over half a century old, so he held onto hope that it would get more bearable with time. Redirecting his gaze from vague, contemplative space back to the grimoire, he flipped to the table of contents and scanned through for an index of illustrations. Back of the volume, more or less. Sifting through all manner of woodcut prints depicting strange and disturbing creatures, he finally landed on the correct plate. Hm. Not all that outlandish, all considered. A smartly dressed man with hoofed legs, a long pointed tail, a couple of pairs of wings, and an angular mask over his face, drawn up into a sort of eerie-looking smile, crowned with a pair of horns. Not bad, but not exactly what Rhys was picturing, though it wasn’t like he was browsing a catalogue for a mail-order husband. He was just looking for a… business partner. More or less. 

Rhys scratched down a list of the items called for in the ritual. Incense, tall candles, herbs and oils… Fine whiskey? Spiced wine? Not bad as far as offerings, Rhys thought to himself, but not all that magical, either. What does it even mean by “a fine, bitter digestivve liqueure”, anyways? There were loads of those, if he was guessing what it meant correctly. Whatever, the butler could handle it, surely. Rhys sighed. He’d have to measure out some space in the catacombs, and tote several pounds of salt to his one ley line, then mix it with _gold_ of all things. This all had better work, it was getting to be all too pricey. He needed a walk to clear his head. At least the rain had let up.

It had become a fine night for a stroll as Rhys set out, the resident crows rustling in their perches as he roused them, momentarily, from their slumber. The moon was bright and clear in the starry sky, not so bright as to bear down on Rhys, but not so dim as to strain his eyes or ward off the flitting bats dancing under the constellations above. The clean scent of rain in the summer valley filled his nostrils, the blood of the land nourishing the forests and hills above and the fields below. The air still bloomed white with fog below the precarious hill Rhys’s manor was set on, and as Rhys travelled deeper into the valley of his duchy, it slowly enveloped him in its dewy embrace. He strode silently through the muddy streets, observing animals going about their lives, undisturbed by Rhys’s unseen presence as they traipsed through the misty forest, badgers, weasels, owls, bats, frogs alike. He watched a young buck, his head crowned with little horns wreathed with bloody strands of shedding antler-velvet, sleeping peacefully just by the road, ears twitching in his sleep as they brushed away imagined flies. He stooped down to observe a newt rambling down the street, scooped it up in his hands, and placed it into the ditch, so as to avoid it becoming crushed should someone else not see it. What a lovely newt. What a lovely night. If only every night could be this pleasant. 

Rhys made his way closer to the village, at this point his duchy’s only settlement, which at the very least was not terribly suspicious of his comings and goings. Surely half the town knew of his condition by now, but they knew who he was, and those who knew him knew he was no real threat to anyone. Anyone like them, anyways. Rhys was no hunter of mortals, no killer of men. He considered the village folk like a shepherd considers his sheep, they were his livelihood, both financially and nutritionally. He hadn’t drained anyone in years, and the last time he had, he had been driven feral by Vasquez’s tormenting combined with an unfortunate circumstance. And that had been kingdoms away, on holiday. Nobody had to know about that. Nobody here likely did, even his growing harem of hardy, graciously open-minded peasant men willing to trade a morsel of blood for… whatever Rhys had on offer. Wine, sweets, tutelage in literacy, feasts, once in a while, though those had been dialed back as the coffers began to empty, but he still made an effort. He most certainly owed it to these young men for being so cool about everything. He wondered why they kept coming back. Surely, reason would overtake them someday, and they’d consider, “hey, this is wrong, why am I allowing a monster to drink my blood? This isn’t worth all these trappings of luxury, or the feeling of camaraderie I have fostered with this man-- no, this _thing_ that lives amongst us.” Was it camaraderie? Rhys felt some sort of kinship with these favorites of his, at least. They weren’t his _friends_ , but he certainly felt _some_ sort of way when he saw them. Regardless, he felt that, when the townsfolk finally got the slightest inkling of sense, surely they ought turn their corrupted superior over to the authorities. Maybe they’d put Rhys in the ground, where he belonged, he thought, as he gazed out on the old Bellemont graveyard. His favorite haunt. This is where he’d meet his favorite blood-cattle, stroll around, tend to the grave goods, maybe lay on the grass and look at the stars and absorb some of their vital, comforting warmth. He’d always meet at such feeding-trysts bearing gifts of some kind, or at least a bit of poetry to share, his or some new book he’d have gotten, and he’d… try his best to make it all worth the bother. Surely it hurt, why do it more than once? He wasn’t complaining, but… He felt guilty about it, certainly. At least animal blood could tide him over most of the time. Still, he felt the need to keep seeking out the blood, warmth and companionship of these men, regardless of his reservations. 

Tonight he abstained from laying on the grass, as it was wet and he didn’t want to ruin his coat. Instead he perched on a bench, looking out across the graveyard. It was so old, so deeply steeped in the soul of the land, that no matter how sanctified the church that stood down the hill from Rhys’s stone roost touted it to be, he could still stride its well-kept rows with impunity. His ancestors, both by blood and by birth, were interred here, too. He had the right of it. He’d seen the little cemetery expand, not by much, but he’d certainly seen fresh graves, even of some people he’d known, and every time, he’d consider his own state. What if that was me? What if I hadn’t gotten caught up in this whole eternal youth thing? Rhys was still, even by mortal standards, rather too young to die, but he was surely old enough to have been stabbed, or be kicked by a horse, or succumb to consumption, or over-indulge on opium-- not that he’d tried it, but he’d seen the damage done. He strolled the paths, seeing if anyone new had perished. He knew it was his fate to see everyone he bonded with die, it was one reason he tried not to get so attached to his mortal companions. He couldn’t help it. He was always thinking about them. Maybe if he was more like Count Henderson, and just kept them in cages and treated them like shit, he wouldn’t be so melancholy about it when they died, or left town, or got married and stopped seeing him. He wasn’t so much jealous as he was just lonely. All the friends he had left were Vaughn, who lived far away, and Yvette, who also lived far away, but was also being standoffish in their correspondences as of late. Rhys was beginning to resign himself to just losing everyone at this point. He sighed, staring wistfully over the tiny hamlet that comprised his claim, winks of the seven or so somewhat newly installed gas lamps on the meager high street twinkling like a dishearteningly pitiful version of the billions of stars in the scintillating, milk-washed sky above. He’d sold out his life for _this_? Well, at least he still had something.

After a little while of sitting, pondering, making owl noises and unintentionally scaring several bats out of the big oak, making bat noises to attract the bats back and calm them, petting a handful of bats (he could fit three comfortably in his good hand), and noticing the weather seeming to become more inclement, Rhys decided it was time to go home.

As he strode through the night, the gloomy fog blanketing the land even more heavily now, hanging like cobwebs over a spider-infested tree, so dense as to leave dewdrops on Rhys’s cold, pale skin as he conducted his impromptu patrol of his claim, the smell of mortal blood wafted through the dense, chilly air. His ears flicked, picking up a sound, a hushed voice. He spied a light ahead, and crept closer. Bandits were, unfortunately, endemic to the area, and damn if Rhys had not left his pistol at home in all of his anxious preoccupation. No matter, he was strong, and this was his land, damn it, and he was sick and tired of people having their way with it. Rhys steeled his nerves and approached. He looked around near the crossroads post, where he was sure he’d seen the flash of a lantern, but saw no one. Curious, he crept around, until suddenly he was grabbed, and something burning-hot was drawn around his throat, his hands held behind his back. He coughed and sputtered, finding it hard to breathe.

“Show us some coin, rich boy.” Jeered one of the bandits, his accomplice stalking around to meet Rhys’s eyes, brandishing a knife that glinted with silver.

“What? -cough- I don’t have anything on me, I’m -cough cough- just out for a walk.”

“Come on, we know you got it, cough it up.”

Rhys struggled, feeling uncommonly weak. The burning of the cord around his neck was suffocating him, between that, the silver knife, and the inflammatory stench of garlic coming off these two, it was clear they knew what he was.

“Who sent you, anyways? -cough- You don’t look like real hunters.”

“Doesn’t matter.” The bandit behind Rhys snarled, driving something sharp into his restrained flesh hand, that stung and burned like silver. “Pay up, or I cut off your OTHER arm.”

Rhys’s stomach sank. In this light, nobody who didn’t know him personally would know that his whole right arm was artifice. Sure, he could probably feel that his hand was, but the rest of his arm was obscured by his jacket. Someone had tipped them off about him.

“You know what, screw this, man, let’s just knock him out and take his stuff. He isn’t gonna cooperate with us.” The knife-holding bandit lamented, and before his restraining counterpart could argue, he’d whacked Rhys upside the head with the big silver pommel of the knife, knocking him out cold.

Rhys awakened, bleary-eyed, to the light of the half-moon bearing down warmly upon his cold, undead face, the night having cleared with a brisk breeze. He hastily wobbled to his feet, condensed dew dripping off of him in beads. Surely morning wasn’t far off, he worried. The smell of blood, however, stopped him in his tracks as it saturated his nostrils. He brimmed with thirst, turning on his heel to follow the scent. He needn’t have even taken another step. Beside where he’d lain, his former assailants were splayed out on the ground, each with a gratuitous number of bullet wounds in his chest. Despite the suspicion of it all, Rhys knelt down, lifting one up by the shoulders and head, and bit into his neck, still nearly living temperature, and fed. His eyes rolled back in satisfaction as his always-gnawing hunger was sated, an audible “mmm” breathed out as he dined.

“Ah, come on, the least you could do is thank me. It’s like you can’t even see me.”

Rhys jumped at the sound, a feral, timid glint in his dilated pupils flashing up at the voice as he recoiled, embarrassed at his very public display of hunger and fearing for his safety. He soon realized it was no bandit, and surely no hunter. 

There, leaning casually against the signpost, stood a man, or rather, a man-shaped creature, clad in criminally tight leather trousers and a billowy, ornate gossamer shirt that left but nothing to the imagination. Rhys’s eyes traced up its deep neckline, its diaphanous frills and undrawn string closures doing utterly nothing to hide this mysterious rogue’s statuesque chest. His gaze landed on his face, its perfectly sculpted angles as dazzling and sharp as a cut diamond in the moonlight. And those _eyes_ , by the Gods... Rhys was so transfixed on the handsome stranger’s beauty, he almost hadn’t even noticed all of his other, more bizarre features, his little hoofed feet, the six wings sprouting from behind him, his skinny, pointed tail swishing like an annoyed cat’s, the glossy black horns sprouting from beneath what was pretty certainly a mask on closer inspection. This was him. This was exactly who Rhys had been thinking of. Handsome Jack.

“Need a hand, there, pumpkin?” Jack said. Ooh, that cocksure demeanor did _things_ to Rhys in the frazzled state he was in. Without even considering the consequences, he accepted the hand extended to him by the fiend, feeling a jolt of nerves as their palms met. His hands were so big, so strong, so warm, almost uncomfortably so. Jack’s mask twisted into a big, smug-looking grin. “I dealt with those goons for free, really, you should be thanking me.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, of course, thank you. What are you doing here? I was just on my way to uh…”

“Summon me? Yeah, I heard.”

“You heard? From where? Who? What? I live by myself.”

“I have my sources, sweetcheeks. So what’s the deal? Got a jilted ex? Or are _you_ the jilted ex, eh?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s my rival, he’s--”

“Let me guess, you either wanna fuck or want him dead, right?”

“Right.”

“Wait, wait, in which order? I wanna know what--”

“Dead! Dead, just want him dead.”

“You sure? You’re talking about that Vasquez guy, right?”

“Yeah, him.”

“Sure you don’t wanna bang--”

“I’m positive.”

“Alright, fine, have it your way, princess. We can make a deal while I’m here, eh? By the way, I’m Handsome Jack. Pleasure to meet you, Mister…?”

“Duke Strongfork of Bellemont.” Rhys said, as if rehearsed. Jack’s mask curled into a smirk at the funny name. 

“You got a real name, kiddo?”

“Yeah, if you don’t call me ‘kiddo.’”

“Ooh, kitten’s got claws! Sure, I’ll bite, what is it?”

“Rhys.” he said, looking at Jack dubiously. He was cute, Jack mused to himself, with his pissy little pout on his pretty little face. His dark hair, probably usually very neat, all tousled from his incident. He was so slim and elegant-looking, too delicate to be left alone at night like this, clearly. Even without bandits around, he’d surely blow away if the breeze caught on his coattails.

“Well, nice to meet you, Rhys.” Jack quipped, clapping the young vampire on the shoulder. “My sources tell me that you got a problem I can solve, so here I am. No need to thank me, just sign right here, on the dotted line.” Jack said, producing a very long puzzle box from his previously otherwise empty sleeve, the little mechanisms holding it closed disengaging on their own with a click before Jack flicked his wrist, revealing a long, detailed contract scrolled up within the case.

“What.”

“Contract of licensure. In essence, you sign your soul away to me in payment for my services.”

“I’m not signing all of that without reading it.”

“Fair enough. How ‘bout this: tentative deal while we discuss the terms and conditions, and you can’t back out of it until we reach a fair agreement. Deal?”

“What’s the catch?”

“Well… You’d still be contracted with me for the time being, and if we _can’t_ reach an agreement, your soul is still forfeit, that way you don’t just string me along. Basically just collateral until we reach an agreement. Purely for security’s sake.”

“I don’t trust this.”

“There’s no reason to, but you _did_ seek out my services, so. Take it or leave it, pumpkin.”

“Alright, fine. Just… tentative, right?”

“That’s right. Shake on it?” Jack offered. Rhys presented his right hand, the mechanical one. “Ooh, that’s really cool, but left hand, buddy.”

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense.” Rhys said, extending his still wounded flesh hand. As soon as Jack gripped it, a searing pain erupted on the side of his neck. Rhys fell to his knees, gripping at the ground with one hand and clutching at his burning neck with the other, an agonized scream punctuated with instinctive, spasming gasps echoing through the clearing. He dug his fingernails into the dirt beneath him, gritting his teeth as the pain began to subside. He staggered to his feet again, dazed, confused, and upset.

“What the hell?”

“That’s the collateral.”

“Do you think this is funny?”

“I mean, sort of, yeah.”

“Well, _I_ think it’s just…”

“Cruel? I mean, yeah, it’s not really my call whether it happens. I’m sorry ki-- Rhys, it’s really just how this works.” Jack relented, sounding a bit sorry.

“You’d better make it worth the trouble.”

“Come here, I will, I promise.” Jack said, offering a hand.

“What?”

“I said come here. I can uh… soothe you.”

Rhys was skeptical, but he was already in this far. He took a couple steps towards Jack, who took him into his arms, a radiating warmth surrounding Rhys, which, indeed, soothed the pain. He felt the wound in his hand seal, the heat in his neck abate, the hesitation about this whole deal beginning to ebb. This was… strangely pleasant. Jack was enjoying it too. Rhys was pretty, and he knew what he wanted. Jack liked that.

“Let’s get you back to your abode before the hour gets too late, eh, pumpkin? Or, too early, I guess. It’s past midnight, ‘s my point.” Jack said, glancing at his watch and nonchalantly snapping his fingers and whistling. At that, a blazing portal shimmered behind him like the face of an agitated puddle of liquid fire, giving off strands of sulfrous steam as a massive, glittering-black draft horse with two crystalline horns and a mane of flickering violet flames strode through, affectionately nudging its snout against Jack’s head. It then looked at Rhys with its void-like eyes, baring its gums and glass-like, jagged teeth, sniffing the air curiously.

“Haha, makin’ a new friend there, Butt Stallion?” Jack said, patting the creature’s neck.

“Whoa, what is _that_?” Rhys said, stunned. He’d never seen anything like it.

“It’s a hellhorse. Made of _diamonds_.”

“Why?”  
“Because I’m rich, duh. Hop on. I’ll get ya’ home safe. She won’t bite, she only really eats soul pellets.” Jack said, patting the beast on its glittering black flank, a two-man saddle materializing on her back. Rhys shrugged. Might as well, not every day you get to ride a two-horned unicorn made of flaming gemstones. He climbed up, the saddle forgivingly plush against his legs, still shaky from leftover adrenaline.

“Hold onto me, don’t be shy.” Jack offered, his tail coiling around his leg as he got situated in front. His waist was temptingly narrow under that gauzy shirt, just begging Rhys to loop his arms around it and hold on tight. So he did.

Jack seemed to take an immediate, keen interest in Rhys’s manor. Even on the ride up, he commented on it. “How does it stay on that cliff?” He asked, rhetorically. “It looks like it could just-- _whoosh_! Right off the edge. Pretty, though. Very scenic.” They hitched Butt Stallion up in the stable, as far away from Rhys’s horse as she could be, since she was making him panic, understandably. They walked through the garden, Jack asking “what’s this thing” about every 10 paces or so, and Rhys explaining every time. The devil’s intrigue with all of this mortal-plane stuff was… charming in a way. Rhys found himself at ease talking to him, as he seemed to have genuine curiosity for all of it, and he found himself enjoying all the sexual humor. Jack admired the multitude of gargoyles around the grounds as they approached the house, sneering to copy one of the grotesques at the doorway, which, to his amusement, blew a raspberry at him.

“Can you believe this guy?” Jack scoffed, jokingly. Rhys just shook his head, laughing. Guess illusions do work on those of an infernal persuasion. Once they got inside, Jack’s curiosity was far from abated.

“What’s that critter?” It was a taxidermied skag.

“Who’s that painting of?” Not a real person, a mythological figure.

“What’s that thing?” A mantel clock.

“No, no, that one.” Oh, right, platypus skull.

“The fuck is a platypus?” Not really sure, actually.

“Why do you have so many chairs?” Rhys liked to throw parties.

“But do you _really_ ?” No, he didn’t _really._

“Do you want a cup of wine?” Yes he absolutely did.

“You wanna just hang out and work on the deal tomorrow?” That sounded dandy, actually. Soon, they were settled in, with plenty of wine in them each, chatting it up about whatever in the parlor, equally surprised at how comfortable they felt around their new colleague.

“Whatcha painting there?” Jack gestured to a half-done oil painting on an easel. The messy sketch on the canvas beneath was still visible in places, but the subject’s face, and much of his bare chest, were painted in loving detail. His skin was pallid, his lips bluish-purple, as if from cold, held delicately onto a large silver coin. His partially-rendered body was posed in a decidedly somber position, one hand lovingly draped over an entirely unfinished lyre on his chest, the other clutching a sheaf of scribbled flora labelled “Asphodel” in Rhys’s handwriting. 

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked. It’s Orpheus at his mock-funeral so he can retrieve the love of his life after--” Rhys paused, noticing the puzzled look on Jack’s face. “Do you uh, do you read much… human literature?”

“Not really, no.” Jack said, examining the painting. “That’s pretty good for a painting of a fictional character, though. You got some talent to paint that off the top of your head, kid.”

“Oh, no, I had a model.”

“Oh yeah? Where’d you dig him up?”

“He’s uh. Farmhand’s son, I see him around sometimes. We uh, hang out, occasionally. It’s so easy to get these kinds of people to do stuff for you, you just offer them a little taste of the good life and they’ll do anything for you.”

“Anything, huh? What exactly do you and the farmer’s son get up to, anyways?”

“Well, after we built a bit of a rapport and things he, uh, let me feed on him, so that was pretty great.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that like?”

“Iunno, I imagine it hurts a bit.”

“I meant for you, what’s it like, whadda you guys call it, _embracing_ a cute little hunk’a man like that? Biting into his neck, feeling him squirm and-- ooh, damn, that must be pretty gratifying, huh?” Jack said, saucily miming a shiver as his tone became lewder by the word. Rhys bit his lip, contemplating it a bit more than he meant to.

“Yeah, yeah, it actually is, you’re right.”

“What’s an Orpheus?”

“Oh, that’s the character he’s dressed as.”

“He’s not dressed in much, huh? Could be just about any hunky stiff with a lyre.”

“W-well, he’s _gonna_ have clothes, I just haven’t painted them on yet.”

“I’m seein’ a lotta skin and not a whole lotta room for threads.”

“It isn’t done! He’ll have a funeral wreath and a toga. The bare skin is there cause I, uh, have to paint some sheer fabric and I dunno where what’s going yet.”

“Fuck it, let him be naked. He doesn’t care anymore, eh? He’s dead!”

“No, he’s not really dead, he’s just pretending to be dead so he can go rescue his wife from the underworld.”

“Oooh, I like where this is goin’, now! Does he catch his wife in the act with some hell-monster? Does he ask to join?” 

“No, no, no nonono. It’s not that kind of story.” Rhys explained. He’d actually never even heard of such a story being published. That would be absurd.

“Why bother, then? Sounds boring.”

“It’s really not. It’s romantic. Inspiring, even.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Orpheus goes to any length to return what’s rightfully his… I guess it’s just kind of relatable. He loses it all in the end, though, so it’s sad.”

“Aw. Well, _I_ won’t fuck your wife without you, pumpkin, don’t you worry.”

“I’m not married.”

“Oh, well, color me shocked.” Jack said, sarcastically.

“Yeah, I know, but I’m only young, and none of my suitresses are ever--” Rhys tried, absolutely sincerely, to justify his bachelorhood. 

“You prefer guys, don’tcha, Rhysie?” Jack asked, teasingly.

“What?”

“I saw how you were lookin’ at me, doofus. I may be a horny bastard, but I ain’t dumb.”

“Wait, that’s a thing?” Rhys asked, baffled.

“Oh absolutely. All the cool kids are doin’ it, too, don't ya know?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, pretty much all those greek poets boinked dudes.” Jack said, vaguely recalling something he’d heard around a couple times. He didn’t really care about that kinda thing. The poets, that is, not the man-love. 

“Really? I just… never really considered it as like… something that other people thought about.”

“That’s a real shame, kitten. Feels good to know it’s a thing, though, huh?”

“Yeah, it, uh, it does.” Rhys said, contemplating as he stared deeply into Jack’s plunging neckline. It just seemed so right, so true, but how could he trust someone like this? A literal devil, from the depths of Hell? Certainly he could be lying. But it just felt so _right_.

Their discussions led late into the brighter hours, Rhys drawing his curtains so they could stay up chatting more, drinking more wine, reading poetry, discussing the flora and fauna of their respective homes. Jack took in all of Rhys’s excited gushing about art and animals and gardening and literature with a genuine curiosity he hadn’t felt in centuries. Rarely did anyone capture his attention like Rhys did, but here he lay, on his stomach, head cradled in one hand, cloven-footed legs kicked lackadaisically in the air as he watched Rhys perform two halves of some theatrical piece, enthralled by his decidedly dorky, charmingly amateurish acting chops. Rhys’s cat seemed to like it, at least, as she sat in a loaf on Jack’s cushy rear, purring as his pointed tail scratched her behind the ears. Either that or she was sleeping.

Soon enough, or maybe too soon, Rhys had become drowsy, less animated, more cuddly. He found himself magnetized to Jack, who, despite having only just met Rhys, by happenstance, that day, and they were nominally business partners, and he was, you know, a devil, was fully willing to serve as a cuddly source of warmth. He’d wrapped an arm around Rhys as he sleepily explained why people got _Romeo and Juliet_ all wrong, and why, if they just freaking _read_ it, they’d understand -yawn- how futile love really is. 

Jack just smiled and said, “You really think that, or are ya’ just tired?”

“Mm, yeah, you’re right, I’m bushed.” Rhys said, yawning and stretching his arms. He’d long since shed his jacket, and Jack had been eyeing up Rhys’s sweet arcano-mechanical arm, a mix of glossy black, porcelain and fine metal scrollwork over just a flirtatious peek of machine components and softly glowing… crystals, it looked like. He was almost as intrigued with it as he was with the rest of Rhys, snuggled up under his black woolen blanket though he was.

“I think I’m gonna hit the sack. Make our deal in the evening, eh?”

“Sounds like a plan, champ. You got anywhere I should crash, or do you care?”

“Guest rooms. -yawn- Follow me, they’re on my way anyways.”

“Oooh, I’m your _guest_ now? I guess now I can come and go as I please, since you invited me.”

“You have to follow that rule too?”

“Nah, I can do what I want.”

“Here’s a room.” Rhys said, opening the closest door to them, gesturing inside. It was dark, cozy, the windows fully blocked by heavy curtains, gaslamps turned off. The bed looked comfortable enough, though.

“Thanks, Rhys. Have a good ni-- wait, it’s like 8 in the morning. Good sleep?”

“Yeah, you too, Jack. See you in the evening.” Rhys said, shuffling off to his bedroom.

  
Rhys slipped into his nightgown and laid down in his coffin, mulling things over. Despite how tired he was, he was unable to sleep just yet. Was this the right thing to do? Was he making a mistake? Why was Handsome Jack being so nice to him, being a devil and everything? Weren’t devils supposed to be evil? And what was that comment about “preferring guys?” How did this man, this _thing_ , understand Rhys so well, apparently better than even he did? And why was he so goddamned pretty? That was just unfair of him. As restless as Rhys was, he was exhausted. It had been a day. Soon, his jumble of unsettled thoughts began to blend into a dreamlike, unfocused soup of incomprehensible musings, which melted into dreams soon after.


End file.
